


Must Like Dogs

by using_this_name



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Craigslist, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Derek is a Failwolf, First Dates, Hand & Finger Kink, Humor, M/M, Online Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/using_this_name/pseuds/using_this_name
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek decides to take matters into his own hands.  Which is exactly as successful as you'd think it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Must Like Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not If You Were the Last Fake Boyfriend on Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067336) by [mirrorkill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorkill/pseuds/mirrorkill). 



> A sequel/companion piece to Mirrorkill's "Not If You Were the Last Fake Boyfriend on Earth" which you should go read now if you haven't already.

_Jackson and Isaac_

“I hear the whole town thinks you’re a hooker now.”

“Wasn’t he actually a stripper for a while there?”

“Nah. Villains always seemed to rip his shirt off, but…”

Derek sighs.  He enjoys his weekly Skype chat with Jackson and Isaac.  He really does.  But sometimes the long-distance nature of their relationship with the pack means that they get information second-hand and a bit...jumbled. And tonight is no exception.

“Guys.  It was a couple people, one time.  And that’s not the point…” But it’s too late.

“I bet he could make a killing as a stripper.  As long as he’s at one of those theme places where he can pretend he’s supposed to be growling.”

“I suppose.  But he would really have to get the manscaping under control.  Have you seen his chest hair recently? It looks like it could take over a small Eastern European country… ”

“Some people like chest hair,” Derek interrupts Jackson mildly.  Also, he may’ve had a couple night jobs in New York that… well, lets just say that growling is definitely a thing that people pay strippers to do.

Isaac rescues him with a disgustingly sincere “I like the chest hair.  It’s more you.” for which Derek is grateful.  While Jackson is pouting and muttering to himself about flavored body oils not tasting as good when you're choking on chest hair, Derek tries to explain the situation as quickly and painlessly as possible:

“The pack is just trying to find me a date.  I need someone before my ex and his pack show up in two weeks.  The hooker thing was -- well, Scott has never been great at plans.  Not that anyone else is doing much better.  Lydia made me wear makeup, and...”

“Yeah,” Jackson commiserates.  “Did she use that gloss that she thinks is ‘totally manly’ on you too?”

“Mhmm.  It tasted like glue and I looked like a stubbly cabana boy.”  Derek pauses for a moment, stricken, then adds, “Please, please don’t tell Lydia I said that.”

“‘Course not!” Jackson looks shocked that Derek would even think such a thing, but Derek knows they can’t keep anything from the banshee.  No one can.  

“So,” Isaac tries to change the subject, “you need a date?”

“Yeah, I do.  Though I may just try to flee the country instead.”

“Fair,” Isaac says. “Hey! You could come stay with us!  We have, like, three empty bedrooms and you know how to cook something other than pizza bagels, and-- ”

“Maybe if I have to,” Derek smiles, “but I think I’m gonna stick it out a little longer. Kira says that her plan for tomorrow is foolproof.”

Jackson scoffs.  “Why don’t you just do it yourself?  Go out to a bar or something. Or if you’re too socially awkward for _talking to people_ you can just put out a personal or something.”

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees, “‘Hot, scowly man looking for a fake-boyfriend to impress the ex.”

“Must be a verified non-serial killer with no plans to destroy his life,” Jackson adds, grinning.

“Awkward nerdiness a plus, but batshit craziness a must!”

Derek shuts them up eventually, and the conversation turns to the party Jackson is throwing this weekend with some girls they met in Belfast.  But Derek keeps thinking about the personal ad.  Obviously he’s not going to go with Jackson and Isaac’s suggestions, but there is something to be said about being able to specify what he wants.  And he doesn’t have to tell anyone.  He’ll just post something on Craigslist, and no one will ever know if its an absolute failure.

The more he thinks about it, the more it seems like a good idea, and the next day, after the horrible failure that is Kira’s plan, he decides to write something up.  It can’t be more humiliating than he’s already gone through. Though, to be fair, he did look amazing in those heels…

Anyway.  He dithers over it for a while, writes himself a bullet pointed list, crosses off “not a serial killer” on the grounds that if there was a serial killer, they wouldn’t admit to it when answering a personal ad, and adds a few more things for good measure. Then he looks at some of the other ads, and ends up crossing out everything but the double underlined “hands.”  What he ends up with looks like this:

 

_Looking for Long Term, Real Connection -  Male in his late 20’s, short beard, athletic build, looking for man or woman to be in a committed relationship for at least a month. Must have nice hands.  Having an artistic talent or playing basketball a plus. Also, must like dogs and children._

 

He figures he needs to warn people about Liam’s adorable presence in his life, and the dog joke would make Stiles laugh.  Which, Stiles isn’t going to see this.  Ever.  But Derek keeps it anyway.  He also attaches a picture of his abs, because he wants there to be a picture, but it can’t be his face, because he knows Stiles will inevitably find something like that, and he is not putting a dick pic online.  He doesn’t care how many people are obviously fine with it on this site.  

He posts the stupid thing and goes to bed, his thoughts turning to the meeting he has with Cora the next morning.  He hopes it doesn’t involve fishnets.

 

#

 

It’s so much worse than fishnets.  

Crossdressing, he can handle.  Almost being dragged into a river to be the watery bride of an Encantado? Not so much.  He flops into bed, still exhausted from having his life force sucked out, and hauls his laptop towards himself to check the automated search he set up to make sure Peter doesn’t come back again.  It’s a bit of a nighttime ritual now. A few known aliases, places Peter had mentioned, alerts on any stolen magic stones or rings of power, that sort of thing.  It's a pretty good algorithm if Derek does say so himself. But thoughts of Peter's megalomaniacal ways are quickly forgotten when Derek sees the state of his usually sparse inbox. He scans the senders first to make sure there's no pack emergency going on, then takes a slower look down the subject lines.

 

_I’ve got the best hand$ you’ll ever see.  For a good time, cal…_

_I wanna tie you up and lick those abs until you are begging f…_

_Boi u looking soooo fine.  Cum over to my place for some fu..._

_I played some basketball in my youth, but how do you feel a…_

_Let my fingers touch u in al teh places u thought were safe fr…_

_Safe, can host, rea$onable.  Hand$ can be arranged as long..._

_Heeey gorgeous.  You hostin? cause damn u pretty as a mu…_

_As long as the children aren’t too young, I would love to play …_

 

This goes on for several pages.  The Craigslist ad was apparently successful.  At least at getting responses.  Derek deletes anything with a visible typo and all the ones with dollar signs once he sees what they are charging. And the licking one. For obvious reasons.  That leaves him with _As long as the children…_ and _I played some basketball…_ and the former quickly gets deleted when it turns out the sender is interested in doing...things...that involve adult diapers.  And a third person.  Derek certainly has his own weird kinky preferences, but that is _not_ one.  

Now left with only one message, Derek clicks it open with trepidation:

 

_I played some basketball in my youth, but how do you feel about lacrosse? We could play a little one-on-one, if you know what I mean.  And I don’t know what this crap is about hands, but mine certainly aren’t ugly I guess. My ex-wife said they were pretty nice before she left me with nothing but the jersey on my back and a half-finished economics degree.  Who does that to a man? I ask you?  SHE TOOK MY DOG, SPRINKLES.  I MISS SPRINKLES.  HE WAS MY ONLY FRIEND IN THIS WORLD.  Unless you count Greenberg.  Which I don’t.  God.  He still sends me emails from college.  What a failure._

_Anyway.  I’m youngish, athletic, a teacher and I’m not a serial killer, which is surprisingly rare in Beacon Hills, to be honest.  Get in touch if you’re interested._

_Sincerely,_

_Cupcake_

 

Derek thinks that maybe this whole Craigslist thing was a good idea after all.  So yeah, the guy likes lacrosse better than basketball, but who doesn’t in this godforsaken town?

 

#

 

They message back and forth quite a bit the next day.  With an opening gambit like “Cupcake”s, Derek feels free to speak his mind.  If not quite so colorfully.  He spends about 10 minutes staring at a blank reply message, before going with _I don’t play lacrosse, but I’ve watched it a lot from the tree lines._  He looks over the sentence, replaces “tree lines” with “sidelines” and thinks it’s not half bad. The rest comes a little easier:

 

_Maybe you can teach me?_

_You mean Herman Greenberg? I dated his sister, Vanessa.  And they made my family look normal.  Which is.  My family is dead._

 

Derek erases that last bit, sighs, and adds a joke about serial killers that he sincerely hopes does not come across as creepy.  And signs off with a nickname, figuring anonymity will keep him from too much ridicule.  He hits send before he can think too hard about how pathetic he is.

The response is almost instantaneous:

 

_Fucking Greenbergs with their fucking...You know that Greenberg gave me pink eye?  THREE TIMES?  JESUS. And his sister was on the track team.  WANNA GUESS HOW OFTEN SHE GOT LOST IN THE FUCKING WOODS AND STEPPED ON A BEAR TRAP? I MEAN, JESUS, HOW MANY FUCKING BEAR TRAPS CAN THERE BE IN BEACON HILLS?_

 

Derek grins and answers:

_You would be surprised.  Actually, a bear trap was what ended my relationship with Vanessa..._

 

This goes on for a few hours, transitioning to a chat window instead of emails, until Derek realizes that he has to get up and actually do things with his life.  But before they stop chatting, there is a brief exchange that ends in what Derek tentatively thinks of as date plans for the next night:

 

_Anyway, you interested in getting shitfaced some place where the little cretins can’t get me?_

_I don’t drink.  
_

_Oh good! Me neither. Meet me at 8?_

 

#

 

They end up meeting at a run-down, out-of-the-way pub in a run-down, out-of-the-way part of town, because Cupcake _doesn’t_ _wanna see any of those hoodlums outside of school grounds_.   Derek, of course, has been there plenty of times before.  He went through a couple of rough patches, OK? And it’s around the corner from a couple of warehouses that are surprisingly homey.

Anyway.  Derek walks in, looks to the bar where Cupcake said they would be meeting, and sees the slouched-over back of a man with surprisingly strong shoulders for someone who likes to identify as a pastry.

"Cupcake?" He says, pasting on a smile uncertainly. He admits to himself than he was expecting his date to be a bit younger, what with the half-finished degree. More manic in their movement, to match the frenetic energy of his writing.  And, he's not gonna lie, with a nickname like that, Derek was expecting flamboyant. Instead, this man is silent, still.  He has a dark baseball cap pulled down over his face, sunglasses over his eyes and - yup, that's got to be a virgin strawberry daiquiri in his hand. At least that fits with what Derek was expecting. And it looks good. Maybe he'll get one, too. Just because he can't get drunk doesn't mean...

His thoughts are derailed as the man finally answers.

"Sourwolf," he says, taking off his hat and sunglasses. "Huh. From that name, I was expecting someone a bit more butch. But look at you with those adorable little bunny teeth!"

Derek closes his mouth quickly and resists the urge to snarl. After all, he doesn't _want_ to look like a serial killer.

"Oh. Did I hurt your feelings?" Cupcake continues as he leads them over to a table tucked in the back. "Don't look so sad, you adorable bunny man. I'm sure you can be very butch. And hey, you've got stubble, so that's a plus. I love a man with stubble."

Derek sits in a chair that Cupcake has pulled out for him, a bit bewildered, and realizes, now that they are close together, that he totally knows this guy.

"Bobby Medrano?"

"It’s Finstock now that my wife left me," The man scowls. Then his face turns suspicions. "Were you one of my students?"

"A few years back. When you coached basketball? My name's Derek Hale?"

"Hale! Hey, I didn't hate you!" Finstock looks a bit relieved, and Derek thinks he's starting to see the manicness he was expecting, but it's concentrated in Coach's eyes.

"Well, didn't you grow up good!" Finstock continues. "Mind you, you're a bit young for me. The stubble's nice, but you're a bit, well, adorable.  And anyway, I don't tend to go for so much...eyebrow..."

Here he trails off, glaring suspiciously at Derek's eyebrows as if he thinks they may attack. It's a common enough reaction to them, and Derek take the opportunity to pull himself together.

"You aren't,  y'know, really my type either. No offense. Plus, you were my teacher, so..." Derek sighs. He is so very glad he told no one of this.

"Well, that's settled then." Finstock says with a nod. "You wanna stick around and talk anyway? The virgin daiquiris here are phenomenal. And the mudslides are to die for. I'll buy you one if you like. After all, I didn't hate you, and that's pretty damn uncommon for me."

Derek smiles. "I get it. For a while there it was pretty damn uncommon for people not to hate me, so I’ll take what I can get."

 

#

 

"Mountain ash lacrosse sticks?" Finstock is asking several hours - and more than several sugary drinks - later.

"Yup."

"But why would you need to fight a werewolf on a lacrosse field?"

Bobby, as Derek was now allowed to call his former coach _(I insist. God. Its like a shot through the heart, when I hear that name.  My wife, you know? She’s to blame for all of this.  SHE GIVES LO-O-OVE A BAD NAME...)_ , has not drunk a drop of alcohol.  He has, however, finished his daiquiri, half of Derek’s, and three mudslides.  Plus there was something called a banana-split smoothie, which had more sprinkles on it than Derek thinks is morally justifiable.  All of this has brought Bobby to a sugar high the likes of which Derek has never seen, and apparently, a sugar high Bobby Finstock is not fully in control of his judgment.  Two mudslides in, he started talking loudly and exuberantly about the family of were-hyenas he grew up with in Atlanta, which his wife was a part of.  Apparently, her duty to her pack was what drove them apart.  This led to the topic of Derek's pack, which Bobby apparently knew about because “Please, McCall was horrible his Freshman year,” and from there, as Derek's mind always seems to these days, they have moved to the topic of Stiles.

"Well, it would work off the field too, I suppose..."

"But it's not - why would you carry around a lacrosse stick? It makes no sense. Anyway, Bilinski can barely use a regular lacrosse stick, let alone a weaponized one. Idiot children. When Ascanio was being a little shit, I just poured a little wolfsbane in his coffee. Not the lethal stuff, of course. The stuff that itches like a motherfucker." Here he pauses to laugh maniacally, and Derek pauses to put down a tip and haul Bobby up out of his chair and towards the door.

"Oh!" Bobby chatters belligerently as they pass a table full of confused looking college girls. "But what if the other team had werewolves!  Then you need to be able to defend yourselves. Level the playing field and all that. Damn werewolf super-strength!"

Derek makes the universal mime for "he is soooo drunk. I don't even know what he's talking about! Werewolves? What werewolves?" at the poor girls as Bobby continues to expound on his point in their general direction. And maybe that isn't a universal mime, ‘cause now they are looking at him like he's a crazy person too.

Oh well.  He tried.  And that’s all his therapist says he can do.

“Der Bear!”  Bobby has moved off the subject of werewolves, hopefully, so Derek doesn’t protest the horrible nickname. “Der Bear! We gotta do this again some time, y’know? I know you aren’t really my type.  I mean, I like me some soft stubble, but above it I want the hardened eyes of a killer, you know? Not, like an actual killer, but maybe a spy or something? Yeah, I would totally do a spy.  And he could…”

Derek nods along and thinks to himself that actually, it has been really nice to just listen to someone else complain, someone who isn’t waiting for him to respond or needing him to be helpful.  And maybe he will do this again some time, to let off a little steam.  

Bobby is still expounding excitedly on the topic of his ideal man, who apparently has some fairly frightening knife skills, and Derek nods along, content, as he stuffs his former coach into his car and drives him home, just to be safe.  And hey, maybe it stings a little that he isn’t quite as intimidating as he used to be, but he’s been working hard on accepting himself and his life, and not carrying his anger with him everywhere, and maybe its a good thing that he’s too well adjusted for Bobby Finstock.  Anyway, with all the supernatural shit happening all around him, he meets plenty of people who are that terrifying, and maybe he could set Bobby up with one of them.

 

#

  
As an apology for the eye-full Bobby gets when he walks in on Derek and Stiles the next day, Derek texts him Chris Argent's phone number.


End file.
